


cactus

by makurophage



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, First Kiss, Fluff, Ice Cream, M/M, akaashi tries to save tsukki, bokuto actively makes tsukki's life worse, does this count as "meet ugly", fuck!!!! theyre in love, its soft, obligatory get-together fic!!, oh kuroo plays the guitar yo, theyre both nerds, this is kinda like mundane uni life shit, uh, yaku tries to save tsukki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 06:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16090373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makurophage/pseuds/makurophage
Summary: The point is, Kei’s face sours like a lime, and Kuroo laughs at him and pushes him firmly into the shop. The point is, Yaku finds them poring over a biology textbook and two matching mugs of black, black coffee at seven in the morning, and assumes the worst.// rated for language





	cactus

_ “The bud has opened and the fresh leaves fan out and curve back with a gesture which is unmistakably communicative but doesn’t say anything except, ‘Thus!’ And somehow that is quite satisfactory, even startlingly clear.” _

__ \- Alan Watts _ _

 

  
  


 

 

**I.**

 

Occasionally, the universe hits Tsukishima Kei with enough unwarranted force to knock his feet out from under his legs. It’s kind of funny like that.

 

He doesn't know where the universe gets this idea that somehow, somewhere in the flowchart of  _ things that Kei got wrong since birth,  _ the first of which was, of course, that one incident with that kid in preschool who he'd bitten in the arm hard enough to get him sent to the hospital (in his defence, that's what it was - a  _ defence  _ against the pain of waiting in line for more than five whole minutes to wash his hands, but that's besides the point), the last of which was that whole thing with Kageyama, but he figures he’s already redeemed himself for _ that  _ \-  _ anyway,  _ he doesn't know where the universe gets the idea that karmic retribution is somehow still in order, and he doesn't know how  _ this _ is infinitely worse than anything that's happened for the past nineteen years of his life, but so it goes. So it goes. 

 

Anyway, there are some things with which Kei feels confident and familiar. 

 

Such things include waking up with no problem at six-thirty a.m. every morning, or jogging to the local _Lawson_ to snatch a handful of premium roll cakes that would serve to accompany him during the occasional all-nighter, or times that Kei digs holes in the cement walls of his schedule to video call with (read: complain to) Tadashi in the dead of night, or times when he trims his hair at the barber who always asks him how his studies are coming, or when he lies down just short of the awning off of his little balcony for fear of being defecated on by passing birds.

 

There are comfortable times, and then there’s  _ this. _

 

Tall, handsome and  _ grating on his nerves,  _ Kei swears he has never come to despise someone as quickly as he does now. Dark-haired, sharp-nosed Oikawa Tooru with less glam and more  _ please tell me I’m cool  _ cannot seem to take any goddamn hints. 

 

Or - no, that would actually be an insult to Oikawa-san. (Sorry, Oikawa-san.)

 

“On me,” the guy’s saying now, smiling and completely oblivious and sliding a coffee completely unprompted toward Kei, who has until now never regretted coming up to the breakfast bar to wait for Yaku to come out. Just his luck today, then.

 

He has half a mind to ask Yaku-san if he’s come down with something because  _ surely  _ dear  _ Yaku _ would, in his right mind, die before even considering hiring this dark-haired abomination into such a prim and  _ cute  _ coffee-shop. Mr. Handsome here looks like he belongs in a tattoo parlor. Or a strip club. 

 

(Kei stops himself there.) 

 

“Why?” Kei says, making no move toward the offering. His gaze travels a little upward. There’s a smiley face on his name tag, no actual name. 

 

“Why?” the guy repeats, quirking an eyebrow, and Kei could hit himself for prompting unnecessary dialogue. “Because you look like you could use a picker-upper. Rough night, huh?”

 

“I had a fine night, thank you,” Kei grits out, and buries his hair in his arms.

 

“Looks like it.”

 

“Don't you have other customers to bother, hair-san?” Kei says, strategically putting most of his asshole-reserve to use in delivery rather than content because it's still Monday, and it's still morning, and Kei still doesn't have _ energy _ to come up with snarky one-liners, thank you very much. 

 

Unfortunately, and perhaps astoundingly, this doesn't deter hair-san in the goddamn slightest. In fact, Kei notes with a deep sort of fear, his contribution only serves to raise the man’s eyebrows even further into his hair, accompanied by a heart-wrenching but nonetheless unwelcome smirk.

 

“You got me all figured out, don’t you?”

 

A loud  _ bang  _ of the door announces Yaku’s arrival from the kitchen to the bar area - five whole feet of whoop-ass and then some - carrying a tray of freshly-baked slices of heaven, whose smell reaches Kei’s nose before Yaku’s own timbre reaches his ears.

 

A saviour.

 

“Kuroo, stop harassing my customers unless you want to die. Lay one finger on blondie over here and I’ll send Kenma after you.”  _ Kuroo. _

 

“But Yaku, I was just being a generous -”

 

“You were being a little shit is what you were,” Yaku interrupts, grabbing a stray rolling pin and swinging it in an arc to sock Kuroo in the stomach. He folds.

 

“Okay,  _ okay, _ sorry,” he wheezes, backing away. “No interacting with  _ megane-kun _ . No touching customers. Got it.”

 

Kei, worryingly, has to catch himself from the upward quirk of his mouth. 

 

“Kei-chan, you alright?” Yaku turns his attention to him. “Want a little strawberry shortcake? Fresh-baked this morning!”

 

“Yaku,” Kei says, lifting his head, “I genuinely would die without you.”

 

“That Kuroo… you’ll just have to ignore him. Playboy wants attention is all. Kenma promised to keep him checked.”

 

“Hm,” Kei says.

 

“I’ll be right back. You need to talk or anything you tell me, okay?”

 

“Mm. Sure.”

 

As soon as Yaku disappears behind the swinging kitchen doors, Kei watches as Kuroo abandons the cash register and marches his way back over, which is when, he  _ should _ have predicted, everything goes completely to hell, which is not to say that everything had not already been complete hell before this, but, well, Kei just means to say that things reach a new level of hell that he would not have thought achievable at all on such an unassuming Monday morning. 

 

Mr. Handsome puts a hand on the counter, leans his weight against his arm, and says, “ _ Megane-kun,  _ if you’re not touching that, I’ll have it,” before proceeding to grab for the handle of the coffee mug, miss entirely, and smack the whole thing off the marble surface, causing Kei to let out a screech in a voice that isn’t his, Kuroo to watch in utter despair and helplessness as his precious coffee swishes out of the mug and into the air and all over the boy in front of him, and Yaku to barge back into the bar area with the anger of ten-thousand suns at the telltale  _ crash -  _

 

And that, dear friends, is how it all begins, and  _ that, _ Kei is sure, is also how it ends.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**II.**

 

It is the very next hazy morning of Tuesday, sometime between the eldritch hours of  _ Hinata is awake trying frantically to write his entire fucking essay before first period  _ and  _ it's too early for any goddamn person to be alive, except maybe Yaku, who apparently sleeps with one eye open,  _ that Kei, inexplicably, finds himself very blatantly  _ not  _ avoiding the very abode that he'd promised to never to return to again, for fear of Yaku’s wrath, even when not directed at himself, unchecked and decidedly  _ not _ funny in spite of (or  _ because _ of, maybe) his less-than-average height; Kenma’s pitying look, which he saves for these occasions only, during which he recognizes with utmost kinship that Tsukishima Kei does not deserve most things that the universe decides to throw at him on any given day, and on top of that, Kuroo’s - 

 

Right. Kuroo. 

 

Kei doesn't mean to say, exactly, that he's been desperately flushing the memory of what happened after The Initial Spill out of his mind, but he's most definitely been desperately flushing the memory of what happened after The Initial Spill out of his mind.

 

The gist of it, if he is wont to fucking recall it at all, is that Kei undergoes a complete failure in executive function, yells about it, and as the cherry on fucking top somehow ends up with hair-san's number in the form of scribbled, near-illegible ink on a soggy piece of paper. The reason why the paper is soggy is that it had been soaked for two seconds in some poor customer's coffee just as she set her mug down on the counter. The reason why Kei has the soggy piece of paper now is that hair-san is not only scarily slippery (or, should he be convinced to admit, that he is scarily susceptible to hair-san's taunting), but also impossibly sneaky, like those of a reptilian or even feline nature, and had covertly slipped the piece of paper, coffee-stained and everything, into Kei’s bag, which he does not unearth until much later. By those laws, of course, hair-san is probably not human at all. The more Kei thinks about it, the funnier and more likely it seems to get.

 

The gist of it is that Kei reluctantly accepts the hoodie that Kuroo takes right off his back and shoves at him in apology, because technically they’re about the same size, and technically Kei can’t be bothered to run all the way to his apartment and back before classes start, and technically it’s a nice gesture after the not-so-nice gesture of The Initial Spill. The gist of it is that he goes through calculus and economics and biology in a haze, returns home, and does jack shit before deciding to turn in early because he can’t think in a straight line, and then lies awake for hours even after that. The gist of it is that Kei isn’t thinking at all.

 

Anyway. Kei wakes up and doesn’t think and lets his feet take him directly to Yaku’s coffee-shop, traffic lights stuttering and hair fog-swathed and everything. It doesn’t occur to him once that Yaku might not even be there this early, which is technically possible, if unlikely, since he apparently sleeps with one eye open and probably lives in the damn shop. It’s Yaku-sized, the place. He could totally live there. 

 

The point is, it doesn’t occur to him, and it  _ definitely  _ doesn’t occur to him that  _ Yaku might not even be the one opening shop this morning. _

 

The point is -

 

_ “Megane-kun, _ hey!”

 

Kei falters. He blinks awake and regrets it instantly. 

 

The point is, Kei’s face sours like a lime, and Kuroo laughs at him and pushes him firmly into the shop. The point is, Yaku finds them poring over a biology textbook and two matching mugs of black, black coffee at seven in the morning, and assumes the worst.

 

The point is, Kei also assumes the worst.

 

The funny thing is, he doesn’t hate it.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**III.**

 

“I cannot believe this,” Kei says, for the millionth goddamn time, as Bokuto-san very, very carefully places the black tip of the nail-polish brush on the tip of Kei’s pinkie nail and immediately proceeds to fuck all the shit up. Again.

 

Akaashi-san, who’s holding Kei down in his armchair by the power of his meticulously-eyelined gaze alone, hardly manages a flinch.

 

“This is amusing,” Akaashi says, and  _ god _ , okay, so Kei might be a little enamoured. A lot enamoured. “You’re  _ so _ cute. If only you’d taken up drama I’d be able to look at you all the time.”

 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto whines, but with less emotion than usual because of his unwavering concentration on the minuscule brush between his fingers. He glances up for a second, accusatory. “If Akaashi leaves me for you then I’m suing Yaku. Little catty bastard and his stupid, cute coffee-shop that’s perfect for dates and also sulking beanpoles.  _ Hmph.” _

 

“ _ I  _ didn’t trick me into coming to your apartment just to get my hands completely destroyed.”

 

Akaashi laughs. Kei feels exponentially better, which should have been his first warning.

 

“But I’m glad, anyhow,” Akaashi says, spinning ‘round in his chair. “There’s this gentleman in the course who you would absolutely  _ despise,  _ Tsukki. He’s interested in biology, too. I shudder to think that the two of you might cross paths.”

 

“Please don’t jinx me,” Kei says, only half-joking. “I think I got lucky enough this semester to meet your roommate here.”

 

Bokuto suddenly stops painting, mid-nail. “Tetsurou?” he says, turning to face the curls of Akaashi’s hair peeking over his backrest. “Are you talking about Tetsurou, Akaashi?”

 

“Hmm. Tetsurou. That seems like a fitting name.”

 

“Kuroo Tetsurou?” Bokuto asks.

 

“Kuroo?” Kei echoes, appalled, his face twisting into a scowl. 

 

“Wait one fuckin’ second,” Bokuto says, pointing at Kei’s face, and it’s been a long time since he last felt the uncomfortable, thorned plant of despair take root in his stomach. “ _ You’re  _ the  _ megane-kun  _ with the blond hair and sour face?!”

 

“I am?” Kei says, nervously locking eyes with Akaashi. There’s a twitch to the man’s smile.

 

“Oh, goddamnit. Goddamn. He talks about you all the time, I should’ve  _ known!” _ Bokuto stands up, spreading his arms, and  _ this, _ Tsukki realizes later, is the one pivotal moment in the entire week that manages to strike him down with a single, fatal blow. 

 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi tries, softly, because of  _ course  _ he’s expecting the absolute havoc that Bokuto is about to single-handedly wreak upon the modest apartment. 

 

“Tsukki,” Bokuto starts, and Kei realizes with a heavy, heavy heart that there are  _ some things  _ that even Akaashi can’t protect him from, “That’s my best bro! I can’t believe you’re dating Kuroo!”

 

Kei presses his lips into a line, and closes his eyes. 

 

“Akaashi-san,” he says. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**IV.**

 

It takes a week, two thrice-edited papers, and a little alcohol in his veins before Kei, sitting inside the unassuming  _ Golden Something-Or-The-Other,  _ manages to make eye contact with Bokuto-san again, but it’s been bound to happen. One has to know what he’s doing to find the little bar-in-a-hole in the first place, enticed maybe by the reverberating bass, the sound of clinking glass, or of Bokuto Koutarou’s merry laughter. This is Bokuto’s home territory, after all. And by consequence, Akaashi’s.

 

And by home territory, Kei doesn’t mean to say that Bokuto owns the bar, or even works for it, not at all. He means that, with all the raucous friendships that people like Bokuto tend to keep, he at the very least has all the musical connections to turn a profit.

 

And by  _ that,  _ he means that Bokuto sure knows how to draw an audience.

 

Tonight should be no different. Tonight  _ should've  _ been no different.

 

To say that misfortune follows Kei like a shadow would be a little far-fetched from the truth; in fact, it was only until recently that Kei had been leading a rather acceptable adult life: he’d finally made amends with Kageyama (if only because Hinata, who’d grown quite decently into his shoes and his cap alike, had insisted he do it), stitched together a mathematics club of his own for his third-year initiative, which was successful from the get-go - amazingly - and even landed a spot in the university of his choice. All those nights spent gruelling over biology papers and extended essays hadn’t been for nothing, after all, and three whole years of basketball - though incredibly taxing at times - definitely didn’t look half-bad on an application.

 

No, he realizes now, he’d been taking the mundane routines for granted. If the past few weeks taught him anything, it’s to never get too comfortable with repetition. Precious minutes wasted thinking of people he shouldn’t give half a shit about, several extra minutes wasted wondering what the actual hell is wrong with him, the final blow being his one-time decision to consult Akaashi only to have his phone picked up by none other than Bokuto Koutarou, the same man who is, at this very moment, baring a monstrous grin at him.

 

“Tsukki!” he booms, making his way over. “Did you come looking for Akaashi? He’s on the set list today!”

 

“Just visiting,” Kei half-lies, wiping his shoes on the worn welcome mat. “And that’s great. I’ll stick around for the performers tonight.”

 

Bokuto snatches a stray set list from a nearby counter. “Oh!” he says, “and Kuroo’s actually here too. Debut. He’s singing. Guitar. Something. You won’t want to miss that, huh?”

 

“Excuse me?” Kei says, because he just cannot believe his goddamn luck.

 

“Kuroo.” Bokuto blinks, and, because the guy has no filter, continues. “Oh, right. You two aren’t actually dating, Akaashi told me. But you’d look damn good together!”

 

“I beg to differ,” Kei hisses, getting ready to leave. Bokuto grabs him by the shoulders and turns him back around, ushering him into the already near-full bar. 

 

“Don’t worry, Tsukki! Kuroo really doesn’t bite! I promise!” 

 

“Bokuto-san.” Akaashi’s voice.

 

“Yes, baby,” Bokuto says, pretending to scrutinize the piece of paper in his hands.

 

“Are you bothering Tsukki again?”

 

A hum. “The opposite,” he says.

 

“Akaashi-san,” Kei interrupts, “is it true that -  _ that person  _ is performing tonight?”

 

“That - oh, you mean Kuroo-san. Absolutely. He’s a pain in the bottom but he’s got a nice voice. You’ll see.”

 

“I will  _ not.” _

 

“Suit yourself,” Akaashi says, easily, and smiles at him. Kei feels his face go red. 

 

Akaashi turns, then, and touches the owl-haired man on the arm. “Care for a dance, Bokuto-san?”

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**V.**

 

“I could’ve sworn you said you were leaving,” Akaashi says, after stepping off the stage gracefully to maneuver his way to Kei, who’s hardly holding on to his glass.

 

“I wanted to see you sing,” Kei says. That much is true.

 

“Oh? And?”

 

“Your voice is -” he coughs. “Beautiful. You’re - I feel nervous just talking to you. You’re different when you get on stage.”

 

“Bad different?”

 

Kei’s heart pounds. He  _ knows  _ he’s had too much to drink, but this feels good. The company is good tonight, too, not too loud; no one’s even broken a glass yet. “By hell, no,” he answers. ‘Bokuto-san is - ah - very lucky to have you. You’re - attractive, Akaashi-san.”

 

Akaashi laughs like sleigh-bells, leans to rest his forearm on the counter. Kei is vaguely aware of the many, many eyes on Akaashi, and by association, himself. “I've told you, just Akaashi is fine. You’re very attractive yourself, Kei. And I don’t just mean cute. Don’t sell yourself short.” His lips come a little closer to whisper: “I know a certain someone hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night.”

 

Pleasantly buzzed, Kei plays along. “And does that certain someone happen to offend me on a personal level?”

 

“You would know, wouldn’t you.”

 

“Akaashi,” Kei says, putting his glass down and nearly missing the counter. He’s suddenly aware of the events that might unfold tonight if he isn’t careful. “You have to help me get out of here.”

 

“Not now,” Akaashi says, though it sounds like  _ not ever.  _ “Look, here he comes. On the stage, silly.”

 

Kei swivels himself accordingly. “Hm? And where’s Bokuto-san?”

 

“Likely screaming near the front of the stage. Kuroo-san asked to introduce himself.”

 

Horrifyingly, a bubble of a laugh arises from Kei’s lungs, and he barely manages to contain it with a quick gulp of alcohol. “Get me out of here,” he repeats, but Akaashi just pulls his head into his chest and presses a kiss to his forehead.

 

“Uh,” comes a deep voice, from the speakers, and Kei has  _ never  _ heard the Saturday crowd quiet down this fast. “Hi. Hello.” The raven-haired man takes his time, seats himself at the edge of the stage and worries his lips. His guitar looks strangely comfortable on his lap. “Oh, hell, there’s a lot of you.”

 

The crowd laughs; someone whistles loudly from the far right. Kei almost forgets he’s supposed to hate this man’s guts. The soft lights make it especially difficult.

 

“Hey. I’m Kuroo. So I’m guessing all of you know Bo here,” Kuroo says, reaching his arms down toward the audience. Kei squints, and sees a mess of grey-black hair bob among the front of the screaming crowd. He hears Bokuto laugh, and his arms reach up and he clasps hands with Kuroo’s. “As less of you probably know,” he continues, smiling slyly, “Bokuto and I played volleyball together in high school. And we started a lot of shit, I remember that. So I’d say we’re pretty good pals.”

 

Bokuto pulls Kuroo’s mic down and speaks into it. “One at a time, ladies. Gentlemen. Others. We don’t discriminate.”

 

The crowd heats up again. Next to Kei, a man with dark, spiky hair and thick eyebrows cups a hand to his mouth. “Sing for us already, Kuroo!” he calls. “It’s selfish to keep that sexy voice to yourself!”

 

“Keep it in your pants, Matssun,” Kuroo calls back, low and drawling. He moves to strum a major chord and lets it ring, and the red stud earring on his right ear winks in the light. “I wanted to get to know you guys a little.”

 

“Where have you been all my life!” A higher-pitched voice yells, from somewhere in the middle of the room.

 

Kuroo laughs good-naturedly, and Kei  _ hates  _ that his stomach does a flip at the sound. Must be the damn alcohol.

 

“I only transferred here recently,” Kuroo says, shrugging. “For the girls. And also for the arts department. But mostly for the girls.”

 

“Liar!” Bokuto shouts, huffing. He doesn’t even need the microphone. “He came here for me. Obviously.”

 

“Of course, Bo.” Kuroo ruffles his hair. “Actually, some of you probably know me from TMU. Or volleyball, even. Any  _ johsai _ or  _ fukurou  _ in here? Other teams?”

 

_ “Ayyy,”  _ a strawberry-blond standing next to ‘Matssun’ calls, followed by echoes and whoops all around the room.

 

Akaashi runs a hand through blond hair. “You play volleyball, Tsukki?”

 

“Basketball,” he slurs. “Made semifinals at Nationals in our last year.”

 

“Other than Matssun and Makki, I know  _ you  _ guys are here,” Kuroo continues. “I think there’s some  _ Johzenji  _ in here, too. Terushima, you bastard, where are you?”

 

Laughs from the crowd. “Got fuckin’ exported to America,” someone calls through the noise. “Can’t believe the almighty Tetsurou remembers us!”

 

“Look at you, Mr. Popular,” Bokuto says, his body now swallowed by the advancing crowd.

 

Kuroo hoists his guitar up with an oily smirk. “Party team, eh? I think anyone’d remember you lot.” His fingers begin to pick out a pattern; deft and quick, but Kei isn’t steady enough to keep his gaze in one place for long.

 

“Alright, it’s that time of day,” Kuroo says, easing into a grin. “I wanna know - what do you guys wanna hear?” A pause, and the crowd throws words at him. “Alright - I’m hearing - I’m getting - Charlie  _ Puth?  _ No way I can sing that high.  _ Arashi  _ \- eh, maybe another time - Mother Mother - oh, I’m definitely feeling Mother Mother.” 

 

“Ghosting,” Akaashi calls, startling Kei out of his stupor.

 

Kuroo looks up. “Ghosting it is. Good thing I brought my guitar, ain’t it.”

 

Bokuto whoops and jumps onto the stage, only to crouch down again and lie stomach-up behind Kuroo. He pillows his head with his arms. The crowd pushes forward still, even as Kuroo picks out the introductory notes of the song, and out of the corner of his eye Kei thinks he sees ‘Matssun’ and ‘Makki’ slip into the egregious mixture of sweat-slicked t-shirts and wild limbs, in futile attempt to push to the front.

 

“Alright, alright,” Kuroo says, giving in to the mob. “Gather round, children.”

 

“Sing,” Bokuto commands, and moves to do something to Kuroo that makes him let out a peal of laughter. Kei can barely see the two of them anymore, save their heads, but their voices are clear as day. Kuroo’s laughter is as clear as day.

 

“Sing,” Kei repeats, and it really can’t have been louder than a whisper, but it is at this moment that Kuroo completes the intro passage to  _ Ghosting _ , looks up and over the crowd, and - by some sick stroke of luck - locks a dark gaze with Kei’s, which predictably has the same effect as if Kuroo had just shot him with a fucking sniper. A hand - Akaashi’s - gently plucks Kei’s glasses off his face, and the million colours in the room come alive in little dots of light: flares of reds and blues coalescing on a certain person on the stage, and honestly, Kei’s never cared much for angels, or flowers, or any of that nonsense, but then Kuroo Tetsurou opens his mouth and starts to sing and for some awful,  _ awful  _ reason, in defiance of every form of logic, Kei feels himself becoming a believer.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**VI.**

 

It jars him, sometimes, the way someone can be a complete stranger one week and be squatting at the coffee table in your apartment the next. It jars him to think that this absolute cacophony of bed-hair and flannel and skinny-jeans can squirm, subtly and not-so-subtly all at once, past all the warning labels stamped on Kei’s eyelids and into the dusty sitting-room of his skin. It jars him to remember that the sitting-room still exists.

 

_ “Must be magic,” _ Tadashi shrugs, when he hints to him about it over the phone. Kei can only ever stand to talk about it in metaphors, anyhow.

 

“Must be,” he echoes.

 

The last one in had been Tadashi. Before that, it had been Akiteru, and even before that, his dinosaur collection. Not even Akaashi knows as much as he probably wants to, but he’s been getting close, because Akaashi is sort of sneaky and charming like that, but the simple truth of it is that Kei is so  _ tired. _

 

_ “You don’t have to make this hard,” _ Tadashi says, pointedly.

 

“It’s not -” Kei starts. “It’s - shit, you’re right. You’re right. I’m not trying to.”

 

_ “It’s not so complicated.” _

 

“It’s not,” Kei makes himself agree. He exhales, slowly, stares at his wall. “Tell me about Yachi.”

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**VII.**

 

“You ever think about purpose, Tsukki?”

 

Kei doesn’t look up from his textbook. “Only idiots like you would, Kuroo-san. There’s no use.”

 

“Hm, really? You don’t believe in, like, strings of fate or stars of destiny or whatever?”

 

He does lift his head this time, if only to glare. “I believe in math,” he says, “and good music. ”

 

Kuroo Tetsurou is, after two months, still unfairly good-looking (and now sporting a second shiny, black stud on his left ear), but Kei has already confirmed that he is, unfortunately, equally as annoying. His long, lithe fingers spin a yellow highlighter, and the soft desk-lamp light reflecting off of black bed-hair does nothing to soothe Kei’s headache. 

 

“You seem the type to have watched that one movie about the red string,” Kuroo contemplates, tapping the highlighter to his lips, and Kei curses himself for already knowing what he’s talking about.

 

“Out of curiosity,” he admits, because Kei is a lot of things, but not a liar.

 

“And?”

 

Kei concludes this section’s summary notes before speaking again. “It was -” he shrugs - “a movie. I don’t know. It was pretty, I guess, but mostly stupid, and not really my genre.”

 

“Hm,” Kuroo says, nodding like it makes sense. His bottom lip disappears under his teeth. “I see.”

 

Kei looks down. The text in Kuroo’s chemistry textbook is almost completely highlighted.

 

“Can we be done for today,” he says.

 

Kuroo looks up at him steadily, caps the highlighter. “Let’s be done for today.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“How do you feel about old reruns,” Kei says, completely non-sequitur.

 

Kuroo stops packing his bag to raise his eyebrows. “Are you asking me to stay over?”

 

Kei scoffs. “I don’t recall saying anything like that.”

 

Kuroo opens his mouth, then closes it. After a second, he opens it again. “How do you feel about the Twilight Zone?”

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**VII.**

 

“Would you want to -”

 

“Will you please shut the fuck up, Kuroo-fucking-san.”

 

“No, Tsukki - it’s important this time, I promise.”

 

“Shut up. I’ll leave.”

 

“Kei,” Kuroo insists, snidely.

 

_ “What.” _

 

Let’s get matching cactus plants. Now.”

 

“What the hell do you mean,” says Kei, looking at his watch. “Do you have any idea what time it is.”

 

“It is clearly cactus-obtaining hour.”

 

“I’m going to have to disagree,” Kei sneers. “And I do not like the way you said that.”

 

“Cactus?”

 

“Obtaining.”

 

“I mean what I said,” Kuroo smiles sharply. “I am going to obtain matching cactus plants by any means and whether you like it or not. And I am going to do it right now.”

 

“Fuck you,” Kei spits, after determining that Kuroo isn’t joking. He turns back to his textbook with purpose.

 

The thing is, Kei doesn’t care much for purpose. The thing is, it’s kind of dark outside, and technically he doesn’t want Kuroo to get killed in an alley, and technically it would be kind of funny to watch Kuroo get in trouble.

 

Technically, technically, technically. Kei needs a break.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**VIII.**

 

Kuroo ends up with an entire packet of assorted cactus seeds, a bruise where he smacked his arm against some stone garden gnome in the dark, and a smile like the moon.

 

Kei ends up with a glazed, red-orange pot in either hand, both of them shaped like cats. They’re kind of cute. He also has a picture of Kuroo, bed-hair and red hoodie and all, standing among the green-and-yellow plants with his back to the camera. It’s a good picture. He looks like christmas. He feels like Christmas.

 

Kei wonders how it can feel like Christmas when it’s hardly the end of May.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**IX.**

 

“Tadashi,” Kei says, one day, when the two are headed out to dinner. “Are you in love with Yachi-san?”

 

“Am I - what -”

 

“Yes or no.”

 

“Tsukki, I just mean - if it was simple as yes or no then it would be too easy, wouldn’t it?”

 

Kei laughs, and pulls open the door to the diner. “I didn’t know something could be  _ too _ easy.”

 

They settle down at their usual seats, a booth right next to the floor-ceiling windows. Kei orders for the two of them, like he always does.

 

The sky is dark on the other side of the windows, but the streets hardly dim - it’s so easy for bustling Tokyo to live up to its light-based monikers, after all; a restless mixture of high-rises and green parks where anyone can meet anyone else, and - as the locals insist often enough that even Miyagi-born Kei knows the story by heart - it’s got to be “fate” if you kiss your first love under rare-seen Tokyo stars.

 

“I mean,” Tadashi says, after sitting in quiet contemplation for a long minute, “not that I don’t love her, but  _ in love  _ \- that’s something different, isn’t it?”

 

“Is it?” Kei asks, more of an afterthought than a real question. Tadashi knows this, and falls silent again.

 

The food arrives. It’s good, but he’s expected that. He expects most things.

 

“Tsukki,” Tadashi speaks up, and Kei must have been lost in thought for it to startle him so badly. “Good luck. I care about you a whole lot and I’m really happy for you.”

 

Kei looks at his plate, and wonders how Tadashi had learned to say something like that so easily. “Shut up,” he replies. He picks up a piece of meat with his chopsticks and drops it on Tadashi’s plate. “Stupid. I don’t need luck.”

 

“You’re right,” Tadashi says, smiling, and Kei never had been able to win against him.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**X.**

 

“Would you want to -”

 

“Not this again.”

 

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” Kuroo complains. “I just wanted to know if you want to get ice cream with Bo and Akaashi and I.” He pauses for a second, and adds, “Kenma is hanging out with shrimpy again.”

 

Kei stops inspecting his tiny cactus. “It’s not like we haven’t done it before,” he says, squinting suspiciously at Kuroo, who’s reclining on the fucking floor. They have done it, in fact, a good several times. Bokuto and Kuroo often do something to make the experience as painful and embarrassing as is probably legal, and Akaashi is often the one to take him home. The guy has a good heart.

 

“I know,” Kuroo says. “But this time is special.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Did you forget it’s literally your birthday tomorrow.”

 

“How do you know when my birthday is,” Kei replies, testily.

 

Kuroo shrugs. “I strangled it out of Yaku.”

 

“You did not.”

 

“Alright, I didn’t,” Kuroo laughs. “He told me to ‘do something good for once’ and threatened to kick my nose off of my face if I spoil your birthday.”

 

“Jesus,” Kei says.

 

“Anyway. Please let’s fucking go.”

 

Kei wavers, only for a second. Kuroo’s funny like that. “Now?”

 

“Now.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Where’s -”

 

“I didn’t actually ask them to come this time,” Kuroo says, sounding a little sheepish. “So it’ll just be us two. That’s okay, right?”

 

“Uh,” says Kei, feeling just a little bit fucking terrified and a lot exhilarated. Just the two of them. “Can I let Akaashi know where we are.”

 

“What, you scared of me?” Kuroo smirks, but softens up when he catches Kei’s face. “But really, go ahead, I get it.”

 

“Thank you,” Kei says, out of nervousness, and stops for a quick second to send a text to Akaashi. The breeze draws his shoulders a little tighter.

 

“Tsukki,” Kuroo begins when they start walking again. He lands a hand gently onto Kei’s back, which makes him jump a little. “Tsukki, it’s just me. You don’t have to be nervous.”

 

Kei is absolutely fucking nervous. Unwillingly, he is made conscious of every minute movement of Kuroo’s hands, the shape of his lips when they move, the stride in his step. It gets tiring, fast, but he honestly can’t fucking stop.

 

The feeling starts building up from the morning, when Kuroo greets him without all the knives attached, and offers to carry his books to his class. It persists when Kuroo leans a little too close into his space when he’s teaching him about benzenes and periodicities and whatnot, and it continues as Kei frantically yells at his heart to stop beating so fucking urgently right now because seriously,  _ seriously,  _ it’s just  _ Kuroo,  _ and they’re about to get strawberry ice cream, which Kei adores, so what the fuck, right.

 

The ice-cream shop jingles as they step inside, bathed in the neon-pink of the lettering on the walls and the soft yellow-green of dim, hanging light-bulbs.

 

Kuroo works his charm on the cute girl at the cashier who, like usual, puts on an extra scoop for each of them, and then they retreat to one of the quieter, window-lit corners. (Not that it’s so loud in the first place, there are maybe four other people in here, but every noise travels fast since they’re packed so tightly.)

 

The conversation comes easily as they slide into the booth, which should be some kind of funny to say since Kei used to be absolute trash at small-talk, and also used to despise it entirely. Surprisingly it isn’t so hard to find things to talk about, even if they hardly see each other in class. Admittedly, most of it is Kuroo recalling horrible stories about Kenma and Bokuto, and the rest of it is Kei struggling not to cough up the ice-cream he just spooned into his mouth.

 

Half and hour passes in the blink of an eye, and there’s just a couple of spoonfuls of mostly-melted ice-cream left in his bowl, but Kei finds that he still hasn’t actually calmed down. He flinches for the millionth time tonight when Kuroo touches his arm to ask what’s wrong (and then apologizes for it immediately, which is also kind of funny, because  _ when did Kuroo get so considerate _ ).

 

“I don’t know why I’m nervous,” Kei admits quietly, staring at his spoon. “I’m not scared of you, and I’m having a good time -” he looks up to glare when Kuroo makes a pleased sound at that - “so what the fuck, right.”

 

“It’s okay to be,” Kuroo says, a little too seriously. “It’s cool to be nervous. But here’s a fair warning.”

 

Kei raises his head. His gaze lands on Kuroo’s lips, where there’s still a bit of ice-cream clinging on. A tongue appears and swipes it into his mouth.

 

Kuroo pushes his bowl to the side and leans forward. “I’m about to make you a lot more nervous.”

 

“Oh,” says Kei.  _ “Oh.” _

 

Kei won’t blame Kuroo for looking the way he does right now, twenty and unfairly attractive in some bullshit Nirvana t-shirt and one of his million pairs of black jeans and a red flannel thrown on top of the whole mess. He won’t blame Kuroo for the honey in his eyes, or the way that his hands come up to hold Kei’s jaw between his thumb and forefinger; he won’t blame himself for feeling like a strange calm has washed over him despite the unmanageable tangle of panic going off in his brain. He feels calm, because now he knows why he - this whole time, he -

 

“Tsukki, can I kiss you?”

 

“I -”

 

“Yes or no,” Kuroo breathes. “Please.”

 

Kei manages a humoured smile at that. “If it was as simple as yes or no,” he says, “then it would be too easy, wouldn’t it.”

 

Kuroo stares at him, dumbfounded, thumb on Kei’s lips and everything.

 

Kei wants to laugh. Instead, he pushes his own bowl to the window. “I mean yes, Kuroo,” he whispers. “Yes.”

 

The frozen spell breaks, and Kuroo’s eyes light up like Christmas. Kei leans forward a little, but makes Kuroo do most of the work, because he’s funny like that. Kuroo puts his strawberry-mouth on his, and Kei can’t do anything but smile against him. It’s funny like that.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**?.**

 

_ “This one’s for the boy who puts the stars in my sky.” _

 

Tsukishima Kei has never been one for pressing thumbs, or ice-cream tongues, or reruns of  _ The Twilight Zone _ at two a.m. on a friday night, but then again, he has also never been one for pitching arms-first into dim-lit bars that are as homey as they are loud.

 

Tsukishima Kei has never been one for anything; hardly, anyway, for the same red-mauve-black-checkered flannel that invites itself to the stage every other Saturday - unruly, ink-black hair and deep-set, golden eyes that never miss the crowd because, as they like to say,  _ absence makes the heart grow fonder. _

 

He  _ has  _ always _ ,  _ however, been a complete fool, and zeroing in on the stage where red and blue lights mix like paint is almost instinctual to him. It’s instinctual to the crowd, for sure. 

 

So when deft fingers pluck out a dissonant chord and lips come an inch from the microphone and a deep voice utters, almost secretly,  _ “this one’s for the boy who puts the stars in my sky,”  _ Kei’s heart leaps directly into his throat, and he pulls his scarf a little tighter, and the crowd holds its breath like it’s the end of the world.

 

“It’s a little cliché, I’m sorry,” the singer adds, corner of his lips pulling upward in that achingly familiar way, and the crowd laughs a little, reassures him. Kei doesn’t laugh. He can’t tear his gaze from the red-blue-white lights reflecting off of his sharp nose, pearly teeth.

 

And then Kuroo Tetsurou coughs, fingers tracing a pattern on the strings of his beloved guitar (adorned with myriad stickers), and Kei finds it ridiculously hard to think about anything else.

 

_ “This one’s for the boy who puts the stars in my sky,”  _ he murmurs. _ “Whose cup never empties, whose well never dries.”  _ The sound reverberates in Kei’s stomach, and all other background noise reduces to a comfortable buzz.  _ “Who’d chase me to Pluto and fly me to Mars, who’d stay right beside me across all the stars.” _

 

Kuroo pauses. When he opens his mouth again, Tsukki hears a funny sort of waver. “Tsukishima Kei,” Kuroo interrupts himself before the bridge, because of  _ course  _ he knows that Kei's here, “it’s a hell of a pleasure to know you.”

 

Kei finds the perimeter of the room, sits down softly, and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> god i let this one stew in my folder for MONTHs and though there are still parts i dont like now, its in much better shape than about a week ago when i started dusting it off. ive always been a sap. please enjoy :>


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